Distant Shores

There, on the floor by the toilet was a magazine. Travel and Leisure.

When she picked it up, it fell open to a two-page, dog-eared spread on Costa Rica. There was an advertisement for an adventure camp on the Caribbean coast. Someone--Daddy--had drawn a star in red ink on the page.

Theres a place in Costa Rica, sugar beet, called Cloud Mountain--or some damned thing--that speaks right to m heart.

The magazine fell to the floor and hit with a thump. She cried at last, for all the times shed had been with her father and all the times she hadnt, and for all the times she never would be.

When the tears had worn themselves out and left her dry, she got unsteadily to her feet.

She splashed cool water on her face, then smoothed her hair back and returned to the fray. As she moved through the crowd, she felt stiff and fragile. If anyone noticed how awful she looked, no one commented.

She checked on the food and opened bottles of wine, then headed for the library, where her family was hiding out.

Stephanie and Tim sat together on the sofa. As usual, Stephanie was the picture of decorum. A plain, scoop-necked, long-sleeved black dress clung to her lithe body. There were red streaks on her porcelain cheeks, and her gray eyes showed the residue of tears. Tim was holding her hand. They looked like a couple from central casting--young love handles grief well.

Jamie, on the other hand, had taken no great care in dressing. She sat slouched on an ottoman, her white-blond hair a tangled mass that covered half of her face. Her navy blue dress was already wrinkled. Her pale blue eyes were swollen and red.

"I cant listen to any more stories about him," Jamie said softly, her eyes welling up.

Elizabeth understood. It was difficult out there. Everyone had loved him so much and they wanted to share their favorite story, but every word lodged in your heart like a shard of glass.

Jack rose from the leather wing chair and walked toward Elizabeth, never taking his gaze

from her face.

He pulled her into his arms. She held herself back, afraid that if she relaxed, shed break.

"He loved you," Jack whispered against her ear, too softly for the children to hear. "The first time I met him, he told me hed kill me if I ever hurt you. He reminded me of that promise when I asked for your hand in marriage. His exact words were: You hurt my sugar beet, Jackson Shore, and Ill whoop you s hard youll see the Milky Way. "

Elizabeth looked up at Jack. Shed never heard that story before. It brought her daddy back to her for a perfect, heartbreaking moment; she heard his booming, laughing voice, calling her his sugar beet. She opened her mouth to say something--she wasnt sure what--but nothing came out.

Jack touched her face gently. "You dont have to do everything alone, Birdie," he said, "go ahead and cry. "

He was trying to help, but somehow that only made her feel more alone. She knew sorrow would hit her later, hit her hard, the sudden, aching realization that her father was Gone, that shed never pick up the phone and hear his voice again, or go to her mailbox and get a letter written in his bold, sweeping hand. "Oh, Jack . . . "

"Let me help you, Birdie," he said, stroking her hair.

She loved him for trying, but there was no way to help a person through something like this. Grief was the loneliest road in the world.

"It helps just to have you here," she said, and it was true.

She clung to him then, taking strength from the feel of his arms around her, and for a single, magic moment, it felt as if they loved each other again.

FOURTEEN

Jack was back in New York. Thank God.

He knew it was a weakness in him, a moral failing, but he hated deaths accessories. The sobbing, the gathering, that god-awful, primitive ritual called a viewing.

As expected, he had looked down the church aisle and seen that flower-draped casket, and all hed been able to think about was his mothers funeral.

There had been no flowers then, no expensive mahogany casket, and saddest of all, no mourners. Just one skinny boy in a borrowed coat, and a slouched-over, broken stalk of a man, only a few years away from his own death.

Jack loved his wife and he adored his children, but two days in that grieving, too-quiet house had been more than he could stand.

Thankfully, Birdie was good in a crisis. Jack hadnt even had to beg to leave--or to make up a feeble excuse--shed released him, said, Go on back to New York; theres nothing for you and the girls to do down here.

Hed made a lackluster effort at argument. If you need me . . . But she hadnt. Birdie was pure steel when it came to hard times.